


It'd Be Easy If I Hated You

by alittlebitcloser



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race (US) RPF
Genre: F/F, Influencer AU, Instagram exes reunite at Coachella, Mik is a trans woman in this story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29661666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlebitcloser/pseuds/alittlebitcloser
Summary: Rosé wondered if she was texting another client, maybe Mik, but not that because she wasn’t fucking thinking about Mik. Being self-aware was not fun, because in that moment, Rosé realised that the last time she’d been this in denial was back in the closet.Thank god Lagoona was on her screen and not in the room, because the whole thing reeked of regret. She’d smell it right away. To avoid revealing any clues, Rosé plastered a sardonic smile on her face as she toyed with one of her earrings. It tinkled gently against her electric blue nail.“So what you’re saying is that I’m less of a desperate slut than you thought I was? That's a win, mama.”
Relationships: Gottmik/Rosé (Drag Race)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	It'd Be Easy If I Hated You

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a minute, but I saw a kiss video that got me very invested in a certain pairing and I had to write said certain pairing and this week said certain pairing has blown up so it's Time girlies 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, lots more to come!! <3

When the sun came up, Rosé refused to rise with it.

She instead lazed in the dim darkness of her room, curtains drawn and lips pursed as she sleepily crawled through her emails. 

Her clicks were lazy yet purposeful, but then she laid eyes on the calendar alert that told her she had a video call with her manager in...seventeen fuckin’ minutes. Lazy yet purposeful suddenly became frantic yet picky as she picked out a bright pink crewneck sweater to match her freshly dyed hair.

The hair moment had been a long time coming, five months coming in fact, ever since the day she and Mik had ended whilst on opposite sides of the country. The only thing worse than her wifi connection that day was their goddamn communication skills, and a neglected yet proud Rosé had let her fight or flight kick in. Or, just flight. _Yeah._

Some dumb dangling earrings that looked like little golden hands were the penultimate touch before she dusted on a light coating of make up. She didn’t need to look professional, just _alive_ from the waist up.

By the time Lagoona’s name popped up on her MacBook Pro, Rosé had opened up her curtains and scarfed down a piece of buttered toast. She conveniently cleared any mess out of shot and hoped it would make her look like a together woman worthy of even having a damn manager. If you could call Lagoona a manager. She was more like Rosé’s emotional support, Rosé’s manager, Rosé’s foolproof call whenever she got a little too fucked up. 

She honestly didn’t pay her enough. 

“Goona you fuckin’ bitch!” Rosé greeted her manager with a big smile, registering the flicker of surprise in her eyes when she caught sight of her now candy floss-esque hair.

“I’m honestly impressed it took you this long to do the crisis hair dye.” Lagoona deadpanned, cocking her head.

She was necking back a Starbucks coffee in her office, daylight streaming in through the transparent glass around her, and her free hand was tapping hypnotically against her phone screen.

Rosé wondered if she was texting another client, maybe Mik, but not that because she wasn’t fucking thinking about Mik. Being self-aware was not fun, because in that moment, Rosé realised that the last time she’d been _this_ in denial was back in the closet.

Thank god Lagoona was on her screen and not in the room, because the whole thing reeked of regret. She’d smell it right away. To avoid revealing any clues, Rosé plastered a sardonic smile on her face as she toyed with one of her earrings. It tinkled gently against her electric blue nail.

“So what you’re saying is that I’m less of a desperate slut than you thought I was? That's a win, mama.”

“No comment.” Lagoona grinned at her, and pursed her lips before launching into Rosé’s schedule for the month ahead. They got along like a house on fire and she had represented Rosé since the very beginning when her brand deals were tiny and before one photo had shot her to viral heights.

She had done a campaign for Lush in tandem with Pride week, and her aptly named ‘rosé petals’ bath photo had made fucking _numbers._ Youtubers and influencers alike had been assigned a colour of the rainbow before they joined the Lush float at New York Pride, like skittles but _girlies,_ y’know? 

Her roommate was a Youtuber called Jan with dumb make up tutorials and a god awful upload schedule (but she had too charming of a manner for anyone to ever hate her for it). Lush had given her purple, and so they worked together to create the most out-there and batshit set ups. Jan’s photo had her craning her neck and feeding herself a ripe bunch of purple grapes in the tub, while their friend Lemon had appropriately posed in a bath full of the citrus fruits. No matter their set up, as long as they all held up their assigned bath bomb for their followers to see, they were good to go and the money would come right in. Easy. 

Turned out, people really love rainbows. 

Lagoona had called her, chaotically screaming about the sheer success of the post and how this was _it._ She was _that bitch_ . The calls would come flooding in! Jan had clapped her hands together in excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet with a beaming smile on her face. All was well. All was hunky fucking dory. Even when Lagoona had approached Mik when they were still together, stating that booking them _together_ would be a lucrative move now that their relationship had gained traction. Together, they had agreed. 

Lagoona represented them both and it seemed like a great idea.

But now they were no longer together and it was not a great idea any longer. 

“- _And,_ get ready to love me for the rest of your life.” Lagoona looked beyond proud of herself, and her eyes were wide with it.

“Well, I literally couldn’t hate you more.” Rosé quipped, impatiently gesturing for her to get on with it. “So, come on, tell me. _What?”_

“One word.” 

Lagoona left a pause for dramatic effect. 

“Coachella.

Her eyes widened with it, and you’d think she was talking about goddamn Disney World. 

But Rosé found it incredibly easy to match her energy.

“Fuck off. Fuck all the way off right fucking now.” Rosé’s smile grew and grew until it overtook her whole face, threatening to overspill at the edges of herself.

“I absolutely will not, because you’re _going,_ and I have every little detail right here in front of me.” As Lagoona spoke, her voice accelerated like a car racing down a track, and soon enough the weekend was all laid out for her.

Coachella was straight-people-city sure, but in this line of work? It was a big deal. She would be sent clothes, jewellery, whatever the fuck else they wear to festivals to party and partake in a few well angled shots to show off whatever brand had paid up. She would attend a few set events and make it known that she was there through stories and the odd tweet. Oh, and the best part? She would then be shipped off to a plush and comfortable hotel room because Rosé was a lot of things, but she was _not_ a camper. 

Rosé had a few apprehensions about flying over to the West Coast for the weekend, apprehension number one being her ex, but the seduction of outfits and blue skies and glitter and sunshine and _music_ won her over easily. 

So much so, that she didn’t even bother to ask who else was going. 

****

Fresh teal dye drip drip dripped from her freshly washed hair onto monochrome bed sheets, and Mik bit the inside of her cheek as she tapped her way through Instagram. The spots of blue didn’t show up against the black, but they were staining the white. It was stark, rather like the contrast to her former dark tendrils that she had pleaded for Olivia to bleach the hell out of. She definitely could have done it herself but one: she’s lazy. And two: that...might actually be the only reason.

“Mik, baby.” Olivia’s soft voice made her look up, and she cocked her head in an endearing fashion before gently prying the device from Mik’s fingertips. “Get off that thing and talk to me. What brought this on?”

 _This_ being the crisis dye, and the crisis being her ex girlfriend.

“What? My hair looks dope.” Mik drawled with an unconvincing grin, prompting Olivia to raise her eyebrows in this weird all-knowing way she had. Ugh. 

Mik sighed before carrying on, shuffling until she lay on her front. 

“Fine. Rosé is gonna be at Coachella.”

Five and a half months ago, Rosé expressed that she didn’t feel like enough of a priority. Mik thought it was fixable, a small chink in the armour they had built together, but something, some wild thing, had compelled Rosé to just leave. Mik always thought that everyone had the capacity to fight, but go figure, Rosé only possessed flight.

As soon as Lagoona had given Mik the big celebratory Coachella call, she had narrowed her eyes and straight up asked if Rosé would be there. The look in Lagoona’s eyes had literally said it all.

But Mik had a point to prove, so she agreed anyway.

Olivia was DJing there anyway and was a comfort no matter where they were. Olivia had been Mik's ride or die since...forever. The whole thing. She had met her fresh from the moment that was growing up religious in Arizona, through the early days of her transition, through the later days of them too. Olivia was a solid base. In this particular situation, she had offered gentle encouragement, some choice words about Rosé, and Mik hummed in affirmative tones as she tried to avoid getting too into the feelings of it all. She was an expert at swerving the point, swerving the deep emotions in favour of a light grin.

“Should I have gone green instead?” She mused, quirking an arched brow and running her fingers through the new blue in her hair. “Green’s my fave, isn’t she just gorg?”

The bed dipped as Olivia sat beside her, and there were gentle thumps as the other dye bottles fell to the ground beneath them. They rolled along the wooden slats, like feelings in disarray. Mik had bought a pastel purple, bright green, stark orange and sickly yellow too for good measure. _Not_ pink, thank you very much. Personal reasons.

She felt a gentle hand rub the base of her back soothingly, and that touch reminded Mik that no matter what? Olivia was her angel of literal life. 

“Are you worried about seeing her?”

_Duh. Yes. Absolutely._

“Oh, hell no.”

A gentle eye roll, a sigh that totally didn’t believe her. So before she could get in her head about it, Mik kept shit light.

“Hey, Liv?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you braid my hair before you go?”

She had a singular turquoise French braid trailing down her back within the hour, and completed the look by applying dark graphic eyeliner paired with a matching lip. She barely even noticed when her sleepy Siamese cat Leo padded into the room, but he quickly took a seat in her lap and became part of the inevitable Instagram story.

He purred as Mik scratched his chin, craning his neck as she cooed with pouty lips.

“My gorg little angel baby…” 

And no, she wasn’t embarrassed by her ‘cat mom’ voice.

****

Rosé didn’t regret singing Fletcher’s _The S(ex) Tapes_ during her shower in lieu of therapy. 

What she did regret was the way she met her friend Izzy, whose voice was travelling from the lounge to Rosé’s bedroom where she stood, sopping wet in her silky blush robe. Izzy was a welcome presence in Rosé’s life, don’t get her wrong. She was delightfully chaotic and her high-pitched, crazed giggle had quickly become one of the best soundtracks to everyday life. It brightened the boring, brazened the beige. 

They met three months prior. 

During a chat with Lemon, she had brought up her extremely single and slightly wild friend with a meaningful look in her eyes. Meaningful being pointed and pointed being _please-get-over-your-ex._ Moments later, Rosé had a new contact called Izzy on her phone and a booty call at ten. She had led with the suggestion of a drink, but Izzy had gotten the preamble from Lemon and boldly suggested she just come over to Rosé’s place instead. 

It was going well, Rosé remembered thinking as she was backed up towards her bed with rough kisses and impatient hands, and it nearly went _really_ well until she pulled the most fuckin’ embarrassing stunt to ever be pulled. There was a hand snaking down into her lace panties (she had ‘hook up’ pairs that she saved for occasions), and Rosé’s eyes fluttered closed as she arched into the welcome feeling of fingers with gasping anticipation and then- 

_"Please, Mik-"_

Rosé’s eyes had squeezed shut as soon as the words caught up with her, and she silently begged for the ground to swallow her up as she felt the touches leave her behind. She had expected to open her eyes and be alone, but Izzy remained perched at the edge of her bed with wide eyes and a love for the drama of it all.

“Do you have wine?” Were Izzy’s first words after Rosé had uttered another girl’s name in bed while practically being semi finger fucked by her. Unbelievable. But it was a pretty accurate precursor for their entire friendship.

They had guzzled chardonnay like it was water on a scorching day as Rosé told this stranger dressed in just baby blue underwear the entire situation. The formerly charged atmosphere diffused into a new calmness as they settled into a different kind of state of undress than intended, one of camaraderie and utter comfort even in their lingerie. Their tummies were soft where they lay on their sides, passing the bottle back and forth. Throughout the story, Izzy had kicked her legs up, let her jaw drop, cackled her way through it.

“Is this like, The fuckin’ L Word?” Izzy tittered, eyes crinkling as she grinned. 

“Mama, it might as well be.” Rosé sighed, practically pouting with the knowledge she had ultimately fucked up. She looked to her right where Izzy was lounging, quirking her head as she looked over the curve where her slimmer waist met fuller hips. “Y’know, we could still…”

“Oh, no offence but _fuck that.”_ Izzy was emphatic, quick to respond, holding a hand up as she took a loud gulp. “I literally dried up the minute you said your ex-girlfriend’s name.”

Since then, Izzy had become a friend, a confidante, a therapist and a part of the furniture in Rosé and Jan’s place. Her company was always welcome, but Rosé knew for a fact that she was coming to kick her up the ass after seeing she’d been listening to Fletcher _again_ on Spotify or some shit. She dug out a facemask from an old PR box, taking time over some elaborate skincare and exhausting the act of moisturising her body before realising she had to show her goddamn face if Izzy was ever gonna leave. 

Still in her robe, she padded into their open plan living and kitchen area to find Jan cutting Izzy some baby bangs over the sink.

“What the fuck?”

“ _You-“_ Izzy kept her head still so Jan didn’t damn well stab her in the eye, but pointed in Rosé’s general direction. “We need wine. It’s therapy night, sluts!”

Rosé scoffed. “You're cutting yourself baby bangs and _I_ need therapy?”

It earned a peal of laughter from Jan who was otherwise treating Izzy’s hair like a piece of artwork. She was close up, tongue poking out of her mouth in concentration.

“Yeah? Well I guess it’s time for a group session!”

Just like Izzy had an answer for everything, Rosé and Jan had a bottle for everything. 

It was a deep red kind of night, a full shiraz that would have the girls luxuriously sinking into the quicksand sofa cushions.

Izzy’s DIY bangs looked better than Rosé thought they would, and she got called a bitch for making it known that she thought they’d look like a whole ass train wreck. Rosé managed to avoid the subject of Mik for longer than she thought possible, catching Izzy and Jan’s interest by spinning the web of the Coachella conversation. It swirled around them like Rosé swirled the wine in her deep glass. Jan would be going with her, and while Izzy had originally pulled a face and said _sounds straight, gross_ , the girls won her over quickly with the stories of free shit and payment to party.

“Just get me out of this city pollution and into the _sun_ , ya'll know I need it.” Jan dramatised, fanning her face with the hand not cradling a wine glass.

“Isn’t Coachella valley like...a couple of hours from LA?” Izzy swung her head around to raise a suggestive brow at Rosé, fingers in the cheese board Jan had hastily insisted on putting together. “Sounds a liiiiiittle convenient to me, girly.”

“Oh, honey, we are _not_ taking that detour.” Rosé was quick, sardonic as she chucked the dregs of her glass to the back of her throat and raised her glass.

All in all, the group therapy session was a success. 

Reason one: there was limited ex girlfriend talk.

Reason two: Rosé resisted throwing shit at Jan as she gushed over her new and happy relationship with Jackie, the publishing guru Rosé had never met and somehow knew everything about right down to her fuckin’ glasses prescription. 

Jan couldn’t keep her name out of her mouth, and somewhere deep within Rosé, she found it cute. You just had to dig a little bit, through some layers of petty regret before you found it.

But she was there.

****

Mik ran her index finger over the plush furnishings of her all expenses paid room, letting out an _ooooh, gorg_ under her breath as she took in her surroundings bathed in the amber glowing sun through large patio doors. Sometimes, her job was like...a literal dream of life. 

Mik didn't take Instagram seriously at first. It was like a cute little hobby, just the LA thing to do and it was fun to post her make up looks. It was only when she popped that tiny trans flag emoji in her bio that she realised all of the tiny baby angels she could help. They could see someone fucking thriving as a trans woman and it felt _good_ to be that. It felt good to support causes for trans youth publicly and to talk about it on lives. Her job had more purpose than just getting a tan In the desert (ugh, as if she was ever tanning though, factor 50 everyday gorg), more than a cheque after using a face wash on camera that she would throw away after. The freebies and sunshine were nice, but they weren't exactly what Mik did it all for.

She pulled off her bright orange beanie that definitely didn’t suit her new hair colour (but she was kinda obsessed with the clash) and threw it onto the king size bed. The whites and creams around her were accented by the deep black of her hoodie, and she pulled lightly on the strings coming from the neckline as she stepped into the bathroom. With a click, the lights were on. 

She took a moment or so to rub her eyes, check out her pores, hum at her reflection. 

Because after six goddamn months she was going to see Rosé-

No, _not that._ Rosé was going to see her. _Very that._

The power shower saw her right and she hauled her bags upon bags of make up onto the bathroom counter, stark naked and creating a whole ass fucking mess. The water vapour probably wasn’t doing her phone any good as it lay on top of a towel, screen foggy and music blaring from it. Oh well. Mik figured if it kept playing then it wasn’t broken. The mirror slowly cleared up, the hot steam dissipating in the air to reveal her reflection: damp teal hair piled on top of her head and arched eyebrows painted on. She sucked her cheekbones in, nodding at herself as she mouthed lyrics to _Best Friend_ , telling herself that yes if Doja Cat and Saweetie said so? She _was_ a bad bitch, got her own money, all that. 

Blue smoked out from her eyes that were coated in a black line, and they clouded together in a seamless blur. She made sure to cut her cheekbones sharply before adding some contour to her jaw, finishing off with her usual black lip. She took a few extra seconds on her cupid’s bow, parting her lips as she did so, before smacking them together. _Artistry._

“Loves it.” She spoke to herself with a mocking smoulder, cracking up immediately after her god awful (or arguably accurate) Paris Hilton impression.

She let Doja Cat continue playing as she deftly straightened her hair without much care for making it neat. Neat wasn’t quite her thing. _Time for the fit._ Mik bopped over to her suitcase, mumbling quietly until she found the black lace skirt and diamanté belt that just hit different whenever she wore it. It cinched her in how she liked and coordinated well with the simple black bralette and distressed denim jacket she pulled on over it (after checking her ass out in the mirror).

When Mik heard knocking, she was lying back on the bed and pulling on the chunkiest Doc Martens she owned with the whiniest groan known to man.

“It’s open-!” She yelled, unsure even if it was, but then Symone strolled in without a problem. 

Even with the inches her rubber soles gave her, Mik had no chance catching up to Symone’s towering height. She was already miles above her and constantly insisted on heels anyway, practically mocking the goddamn peasants down here on the ground. _We’re all just down here being blinded by the highlight on this angel’s collarbones. Literally, we are not worthy._

“Oh bitch, you cute.” Symone clicked her fingers a couple of times before nodding in approval and wiggling her long, purple acrylics in Mik’s general direction.

And you know what? Mik couldn’t disagree. She had worked hard to get here and reach a place where she loved how she looked, loved what she saw in the mirror, wanted to look at herself over and over in comfortable pride.

“I’m, like, obsessed with myself.” Mik looked over at Symone over her shoulder, who was leaning against the doorway in a beachy red jumpsuit in all of her damn statuesque glory. 

“You got someone to impress?” Symone pursed her lips and cocked her head as Mik walked along the corridor with her, blue laces providing a satisfying continuity from her eyes and hair. 

Mik wasn’t sure how to answer, and she smirked as she tapped her black fingernails against her phone screen. 

“Something like that.” She glanced up at Symone’s face, and her golden hoops branded with her name were reflecting off of the artificial lights above them, turning everything golden.

Symone didn’t press for specifics, didn’t beg for the gossip, but she _did_ encourage whatever the hell Mik was up to.

“Get _into it,_ baby. _”_

****

The flight took them five hours and fifty six minutes, and if you asked Rosé, that was five hours and fifty six minutes too long.

If anything though, she should just shut up complaining and be grateful they could fly into Palm Springs instead of having to go through LAX and have some serious PTSD from all of the back and forth she got so used to. She used to feel like a jetsetter. She and Mik had this fuckin’ dumb joke that they should _always_ wear shades in an airport, that the paparazzi were clearly about to be all over them, the whole fantasy. It was stupid, but it made them laugh. Maybe that’s why she didn’t take off her shades until she and Jan were wheeling their coordinating roll-along cases into the lobby of their hotel. 

The wheels glided smoothly against the marble of the floor, and their moment at the check-in desk was short yet sweet. Rosé felt cute in her velour sweatsuit, the joggers and jumper in a perfectly fitting baby pink with chunky trainers, but she couldn’t wait to get a damn shower. She wanted to clean away the grime of Manhattan, the grime of the journey, and just have a weekend away from all of it. It was gonna be exactly what she needed.

Jan was wittering away, like no offence because the girl was Rosé’s absolute best but she could fucking _talk._ Her voice was high, excitable and quick as she whizzed from one thought to the next. The only thing threading them together were words like _brand_ and _sponsor_ and _VIP._

“Oh! Oh my god! I know you! Hi!” Jan was practically bouncing up and down in the face of a literally smoking hot couple who- _oh_ , that’s Tayce and Georgie. 

_TasteTayce_ and _GeorginaAurora_ online before their channels just joined forces. The latter was sometimes known as A’whora, preceeding her reputation for fucking her way around the Youtube lesbians pre-Tayce. Rosé thought it was pretty iconic.

She supposed that she shouldn’t be all too surprised to see other internet types here, it was plush and trendy and the _in-place-to-be._ The bassline thumping in the pool area said so, just screamed that this was the funhouse to shove all the online motherfuckers who got paid too much for a selfie (this was her job and she’d shit on it if she wanted to). She grinned, took in their laid back yet stunning black leather looks with genuine compliments, even if she was a little sour that they were the reigning golden couple of YouTube while Rosé was the remains of the has-been royal union of Instagram. They sparkled golden while she had bronzed a bit, and were clearly nailing it since they’d been flown over from the UK. 

“I’m jetlagged to fuck and this one didn’t help editing shit until gone two.” Tayce was Welsh, and her voice wound melodically around them as Georgie rolled her eyes and elbowed her girlfriend in the ribs. Rosé wondered if Jan even knew what Welsh was, and smirked to herself.

“I mean if it wasn’t for me we wouldn’t have anything edited-” Georgie’s voice was full of complaint but there was nothing forced behind it, in fact the way she held onto Tayce’s hand, acrylic nails tied together, acted as a counterpoint. 

Rosé allowed the tone of the conversation to leave her behind as she watched the elevator doors move hypnotically in all of her post-flight-fatigue. Jan was still rapt by her shiny new toys from across the pond, and Rosé’s small hum vibrated in her chest as she took in the cerulean accents against the cream, the abundance of plants, that California drawl from the receptionist that couldn’t help but remind her of- 

By the oversized snake plants and floor to ceiling windows with sheer, flowing curtains - it’s Mik. 

There’s Mik, _that is Mik standing there_ and fuck shit fuck shit fucking fuck. 

Her hair was blue. It suited her. 

Oh and she looked good, of course she looked that unfairly hot right now while Rosé stood out here in her little y2k velour fantasy. The audacity was astronomical. 

She was going to murder Lagoona in cold blood, not a trace of her would be found, because she had booked them both onto the weekend with a smile on her face and a bullshit plan in her back pocket. Mik’s nasally stupid laugh echoed off the cream marble of the floor, fuck her laugh and fuck her model ass friend (who even looks like that?!). Fuck her hot outfit and fuck the denim jacket Rosé should have stolen the last time she stayed with her. 

It was draped over her shoulders, and Rosé knew exactly what her clavicle looked and felt like underneath it. 

She was buffering, watching Mik animatedly chat with the supermodel stranger, blinking in a slow and unmoving stare like her feet were welded into the ground beneath her. Mik couldn’t see her, not when she was _that_ and Rosé was _this._ It was downright humiliating, and that was the thought that thrusted her from her spot with Jan, Tayce and Georgie into a quick sprint to find the closest camouflage. 

She looked back only once to see Georgie giving her a questioning stank eye, the bitchy purse of her lips accentuating the entire picture. And y’know what? Rosé could’t blame her. She knew she was being batshit crazy and yet she couldn’t stop herself from spiralling.

A safe and hopefully hidden sanctuary was found behind a luggage cart full of Louis Vuitton, and Rosé scoffed at the predictability of some of these rich bitches. It was tucked into a hallway that only bellhops seemed to go down, and she was feeling mighty proud of herself as she texted Jan a _meet you upstairs do I have SHIT to tell you._ Leaning her head back against the wall with a gentle thump and tucking her phone into her pocket, Rosé dared to close her eyes. She needed a goddamn minute. 

Just one minute to get her head in order.

She hummed quietly, as if it would help her get more ‘zen’. Denali made her do it in yoga class once. 

“Uhh, gorg? Are you like, meditating or something?”

Hearing her stupid vocal fry as hell voice again should have been the nuclear bomb that came to rip Rosé’s quiet time apart. It should have come to decimate the so-called peaceful vibes Rosé had so desperately wanted for the weekend. 

So, when it didn’t? 

When she just sounded like home? 

It was almost worse. 


End file.
